


A Thousand Deaths

by JJJunky



Category: Young Riders
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-03
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Kid is taken hostage by a Sioux warrior wanting revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Deaths

 

A Thousand Deaths  
By JJJunky

 

Sam Cain pushed away from his desk and leaned back in his chair. Instead of attacking the stack of paperwork that had accumulated during his absence, he morosely studied his prisoner - and his conscience.

Unwashed red hair fanned crookedly across a dirty forehead. Scuffed boots hung over the end of a cot that wasn't long enough or wide enough to accommodate its occupant. Unblinking pale green eyes stared through Sam. The evil permeating the dark soul ran along a current connecting them. Sam shivered. Red Tate was the cruelest, most inhuman person he had ever encountered. Hanging was too good for him.

A memory of the scene that had sent a posse to track down the criminal replaced the drab Marshal's office. Scattered pockets of dust reminded him of the pools of red blood that had spread out from the mutilated remains of a mother and her two children. Death had not come easily in that house.

His stomach rebelled helping him made his decision. Sitting forward, Sam rose, "Barnett."

The deputy emerged from the back room, a broom in his hand and a smudge of dirt on his cheek. "Yeah, Marshal?"

"I gotta ride out to Emma's," Cain explained. "I want you to lock this door behind me. Don't let anyone in." Knowing how literally the other man sometimes interpreted his orders, Sam quickly added, "Except me."

"O.K., Marshal," Barnett amicably agreed.

Sam's worried gaze rested briefly on the prisoner before shifting to the naive face of his deputy, "Don't go near that cell," Sam warned, "for any reason."

"What if he wants a glass of water or somethin'?"

"He can wait 'til I get back. I won't be long."

A worried frown creased Sam's brow as he walked to the stable and saddled his horse. Tate was clever. Maybe too intelligent for Barnett to handle. It wasn't that his deputy was stupid, he was just a bit too trusting. He could be easily duped by an inventive mind.

Even as he urged his mount down the road, Sam was tempted to turn back. Dust from the trail rose covering his face and clothes, but he barely noticed. It was his job to deliver his prisoner to Fort Laramie where the man would be tried for his crimes. Despite the enormity of Tate's offenses, Sam wondered if it was fair to endanger innocent lives to accomplish his task.

As he approached the Sweetwater Pony Express station, Sam noticed that clean sheets were hanging on the clothes line. He quickly pulled his horse down to a walk. With all his other worries, he didn't need to incur Emma's wrath by sullying her hard work. Coming around the house, he saw Teaspoon Hunter leaning against the corral. The older man appeared content as he watched a young foal cavorting around the small enclosure. Sam regretted having to be the one to destroy his friend's momentary peace.

"Evenin', Sam," Teaspoon called. After identifying the rider, he turned his attention back to the new baby. "I didn't know you were comin' to dinner."

"I'm not," Sam regretfully admitted, dismounting. "I come to ask a favor."

Teaspoon shifted his weight so he was facing the marshal. "Always happy to oblige a man wearin' a star."

"You better wait 'til ya hear what I gotta say 'fore ya agree," Sam warned, looking off into the distance. "We caught Red Tate."

"I knew if anyone did it'd be you."

Ignoring the compliment, Sam said, "Now I gotta get 'im ta Fort Laramie so's he can stand trial."

"That could be difficult." Teaspoon shook his head and rubbed his chin. "The man's got a lot of enemies who think hangin's too good for 'im."

"That's why me and my deputies sure could use the boys help. The more guns I got, the safer it'll be."

"When ya leavin'?"

"Sunup."

"Buck and Lou will be out on runs, but I'm sure the other boys would be happy to oblige."

Sam smiled his gratitude, "Thanks."

"Sure ya don't have time for supper?" Teaspoon pressed.

"I best get back," Sam reluctantly declined. "I left Barnett in charge."

"That was a dangerous thing to do," teased Teaspoon.

"Didn't have much choice. I sent Keene and Ford off to get some sleep. Don't expect we'll be gettin' much the next few days."

"Does that mean you're leavin' Barnett to watch the town?"

"Actually," Sam hesitantly presented, "I was hopin' I would persuade you to act as temporary marshal while I'm gone."

"Me?" Teaspoon hooted.

Desperate, Sam reminded, "You were a Texas Ranger once."

"That was a long time ago."

"Riding herd on a town can't be much tougher than ridin' herd on six young boys."

"You got a point."

"Then you'll do it?"

Teaspoon scratched the back of his neck, "I won't be puttin' Barnett's nose outta joint?"

"I think he'll be even more grateful to you than I would be," Sam honestly replied. "He's a good man, but makin' decisions don't come easy to 'im."

"Then me and the boys'll see ya at first light."

Cain clapped his friend on the shoulder raising a small cloud of dust. "I knew I could count on you."

"You jus' take care of my boys," Teaspoon ordered, his brow creased with worry.

* * * *

The Kid handed off the pouch to Lou. Despite his exhaustion, he stood and watched her ride out. Though he worried about her, he admired her ability. She rode as though she were part of the horse, not just a passenger.

A raised voice the Kid identified as Cody's reminded him he better hurry if he hoped to find any food left. Unsaddling his horse, he walked the gelding around the yard until he could no longer feel the heavy drumming of his heart. To be sure the horse was sufficiently cooled, he ran a hand down the animal's chest to a point just between the front legs. The hair was dry and cool to the touch. Batting away the flies swarming around them as they entered the barn, the Kid led the gelding into a stall. A quick brushing cleaned the dried sweat from the smooth hide. This was followed by a couple of handfuls of grain and flakes of hay.

Grabbing an extra handful of oats, the Kid stopped outside Katy's stall. A soft nicker and her presence at the door told him she had been expecting him. Opening the hand with the grain, he gently scratched her ears as she gobbled up the offering. "One of these days, I'm gonna surprise you with an empty hand." Even as he said it, the Kid knew it wasn't true.

The soft sound of contented horses followed him from the barn. He stopped to watch the last moment of a glorious sunset before crossing to wash some of the trail dust from his hands and face. It'd been weeks since they'd had any rain. Many of the smaller creeks had already dried up. Always cautious, Teaspoon had begun to ration water. Dust covered everything. The Kid hoped it wouldn't be a long drought.

Finally confident he could pass Emma's inspection, he entered the bunkhouse. Somber faces and empty platters greeted his arrival. The Kid was unable to hide his disappointment - or his growling stomach.

Smiling gently, Emma uncovered a plate sitting near the fire. Wrapping a dishtowel around the edge of the hot dish, she carefully placed it at an empty spot at the table. Despite her caution, a biscuit rolled off. It was immediately snatched up by Cody.

His mouth stuffed with the dry bread, Cody sheepishly smiled, "I'm a growing boy."

"If you don't watch it," Emma warned, "you'll start growing in the wrong direction."

"I need to store up some reserves," Cody defended himself. "It'll be days before we get a decent meal."

"I wouldn't count tomorrow morning as days."

"Well after breakfast then."

Food dropped off the Kid's overflowing fork as he lifted it to his mouth. "What's goin' on?"

Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Teaspoon leaned back in his chair. "Sam would like you boys to help him escort a prisoner to Fort Laramie. I told 'im you'd be glad to oblige."

A few short weeks ago, the Kid knew he wouldn't have agreed to participate. His emotions had been too raw from his brother's death. A death he partially attributed to Sam Cain. The Marshal had been the first to be suspicious of Jed's role as a Calvary lieutenant. He'd sent Lou to Fort Laramie to learn the truth. Then, had set up the ambush resulting in Jed's being shot. Hickok may have been the one to pull the trigger, but Sam had put the gun in his hand.

Only last week everything changed. Sam had risked his life and his job to save a young Indian the Kid had befriended. In their adventures together, the Kid had learned to trust and respect Curly as a friend first and a Sioux warrior second. The Kid felt he owed Sam for Curly's life, and he always paid his debts. "Who's the prisoner?"

"Red Tate."

The Kid almost choked on the food he'd just placed in his mouth. It was a name from his past - a name that made him shiver in the over-heated room. Unwanted memories surfaced: kittens without heads, puppies with no ears or tails, entrails pouring from a hole in a calf's stomach. A foal whose smooth hide had been used as a writing slate. Blood dripping from every slash mark as the animal died a slow agonizing death. Red Tate had been responsible for each of the hideous acts. He'd also been Jed's best friend when they were children. Red's disdain for the little brother that had hung around them had been obvious in both word and deed. The Kid had never strayed far from Jed's side when Red was with them. What would he do now that his protector was dead?

"What time we leavin'?" Ike signed.

"Just 'fore sunup," Teaspoon said, rising. "So, ya better get yer chores done and git to bed."

Though he had barely touched his dinner, the Kid pushed his plate away and joined his grumbling companions. He knew he should tell Teaspoon about his relationship with Tate, but he didn't want to see the disappointment in the older man's eyes. Would Teaspoon feel that any man who associated with such an inhuman killer had to be tainted by the same brush? He would keep his silence, as he always had, and hope Red wouldn't recognize him.

* * * *

Led outside, Red squinted and ducked his head away from the bright early morning sun. He had spent the last twenty-four hours in the shadows of a bleak cell. It'd made his eyes unusually sensitive to the mid-summer light. Raising bound hands, he pulled his hat lower over his forehead.

A furtive glance swept the deserted street and the four young boys who had joined the two deputies who'd helped to bring him in. With the Marshal and the other deputy they called Barnett at his elbows and an older man at his back, the odds were nine to one. He would have to bide his time. It was a long ride to Fort Laramie. An opportunity to escape was bound to present itself. When it did, he wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of it.

He was led up to a tall bay gelding with four white socks. His hands twitched with the desire to carve his initials into its smooth hide. The Marshal kicked his left boot. Obeying the signal, Red lifted the leg and placed his foot in the stirrup. Two strong hands pushed him up into the saddle. The urge to kick his mount into a canter died immediately with the sound of guns being drawn from their leather holsters. He could wait. The rope wasn't around his neck yet.

While the Marshal tied his hands to the saddle horn, Red studied his new guards, looking for a weakness. The boy dressed in buckskin looked familiar. When the boy reached forward to pat his horse's neck, Red realized who he was. With recognition came peace. Sometimes inflicting mental torture could be just as gratifying as the physical variety. "Long time no see, Kid."

"Not long enough." The Kid's face paled, making him look ill.

The boy wearing a black hat and riding a buckskin rested an angry gaze on his companion, "You know this weasel, Kid?"

"In a manner of speaking," the Kid reluctantly admitted. "We grew up together."

Thoroughly enjoying the discomfort he'd generated, Red said, "First ya kill yer brother, now yer helpin' ta kill me." The boy flinched, putting a smile of satisfaction on his tormentor's lips. "You're a dangerous person to know, Kid."

* * * *

Teaspoon watched until the only visible sign of the departing riders was the clouds of dust rising above the buildings. The memory of Tate's malicious grin as his gaze rested on the Kid made Teaspoon want to jump on his horse and bring the boy back. Who would have guessed the Kid could know someone like Red Tate? He had never seen a more cold-blooded killer than Tate, or a more compassionate boy than the Kid.

"Help! Please, somebody's gotta help me!"

The entreaty drew Teaspoon's attention to a young woman scurrying down the street. Strands of her long brown hair had escaped a comb and tumbled down to her shoulders. The right sleeve of her brown gingham dress had been partially torn off, and a bruise was appearing on a swollen cheek.

A few steps placed Teaspoon beside the distraught woman. With one hand under her elbow and the other around her waist, he guided her into the Marshall's office and helped her onto a chair. "Barnett," he called, "get this poor woman a glass of water."

"I'd prefer coffee if ya got it."

"We ain't," Barnett snapped.

Frowning his displeasure at his deputy's rudeness, Teaspoon graciously inquired, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well," the woman hesitantly replied, brushing dust from her skirt, "I was really lookin' for Marshal Cain."

"He's escortin' a prisoner to Fort Laramie. I'm Teaspoon Hunter. I'll be actin' Marshall till his return."

"Then maybe you can help, Mr. Hunter." Sitting up straighter, the woman threw back her shoulders, "I want ya to arrest my husband."

"Ma'am," Teaspoon pulled away in surprise.

"It's yer job to put attempted murders behind bars. Ain't that right?"

Wishing he hadn't sent Barnett into the back room to get the water, Teaspoon reluctantly nodded, "Yes, Ma'am, that's right."

"My husband just tried to kill me." Lips quivering in distress, she repeated, "I want ya to arrest 'im."

Though he was sympathetic, Teaspoon was also uncomfortable with the idea of coming between a husband and wife. "I been hitched myself a few times, Ma'am. It ain't normal ta expect a married couple ta agree on everythin'."

"Did you try ta kill yer wife when she disagreed with ya?"

"'Course not."

"Frank ain't got yer manners." Fingering the torn sleeve, she said, "Ya can tell that jus' by lookin' at me."

As his eyes inspected the torn clothes and bruises, Teaspoon's hesitancy turned to anger. No amount of aggravation gave a man leave to hit a woman. "Barnett!" When the deputy took a reluctant step into the room, Teaspoon ordered, "You look after Mrs. . . ."

"Anderson," the woman quickly supplied.

"Anderson," Teaspoon repeated. "I'm goin' out ta arrest her husband for assault."

Barnett stepped further into the room, "Marshall . . ."

"I won't be long," Teaspoon interrupted, taking his hat from the coat rack and putting it on his head.

"But, Marshall . . ."

"We'll talk when I get back," Teaspoon impatiently whispered, before rushing out the door. He never heard Barnett's sad reply.

"By then it'll be too late."

* * * *

The Kid could feel those eyes boring into his back, accusing him, condemning him for his role in Jed's death. He had no defense against the truth. His heart ached anew for the brother he'd so recently found and lost again. But, he felt no remorse for his present role - escorting Red Tate to Fort Laramie to be hanged.

As a child, he had watched in horror as Red tortured helpless animals. The fear that he would be the sadistic boy's next victim had kept the Kid quiet when adults demanded to know who was responsible. His silence was the most painful memory of all. If he'd spoken up then, how many lives would he have saved?

"We got company."

Cody's softly spoken warning drew the Kid's attention to a small knoll directly ahead. As he drew Katy to a stop, he counted the Indians lined up along the rim. There were ten that he could see.

Untying the bandanna from around is neck, Sam wiped the dust from his face, "I guess I best go talk to 'em."

"Maybe ya should let the Kid," Hickok advised. "It looks like one of 'em's Curly."

"It's too dangerous," Sam argued, shaking is head. "This is my escort. It's my responsibility."

The Kid unbuckled his holster and handed it to the Marshal. "Jimmy's right Sam, I best talk to 'im."

"Be careful," Sam reluctantly conceded.

His free hand in the air displaying his peaceful intentions, the Kid spurred his horse. As Curly rode to meet him, the Kid made a silent vow. He would kill Red Tate himself before he would take a life trying to protect the killer.

"Greetings my brother," the Kid said, reining Katy in beside his Sioux friend.

"And to you my white brother," Curly unhappily returned. "I had hoped you would not be among those who protects _Wakansica_."

The Kid flinched even as he noted how appropriately the Sioux had named Tate. They were right, he had to be a devil to do what he'd done. No other creature on earth killed without descretion or purpose. "We're not protectin' him," the Kid protested, wanting to make his position clear. "We're takin' him to Fort Laramie where he'll be punished for his crimes."

"You say you do not protect him, but if we tried to take him, you would kill us."

"I wouldn't."

"Those who ride with you would?"

The Kid wanted to say no; intimate knowledge of his companions wouldn't let him. "Yes."

Puzzlement as well as anger was audible in his voice as Curly demanded, "Why does it matter so much whose hand ends his life? All that matters is that he pays for his crimes."

"That's all that should matter," the Kid agreed. "Sam and his deputies take their job seriously. They were ordered to bring Tate to Fort Laramie to be tried, and that's what they intend to do."

"He will be punished for the crimes he committed against the _wasicun_. What about the crimes he committed against the Lakota?"

"He will be punished for all his crimes," the Kid tried to reassure his friend.

Long hair whipped through the air as Curly shook his head in disbelief, "To many white men, it is not a crime to kill an Indian."

"I'm not one of them. If I didn't think he would hang," the Kid solemnly assured, "I would hand him over to you myself."

Sharp eyes searched the ingenuous face. "I do not trust the white man's justice. But, I do trust you, my brother."

"Thank you."

"We will stay close to ensure your safe arrival."

"That won't be necessary."

"We are not _Wakansica's_ only enemies."

Wondering what dangers awaited them ahead, the Kid said, "Thank you, again." A hand clasped his arm just below the elbow.

" _Wakan Tanka nici un,"_ Curly said. Wheeling his horse, he rode back to his band.

As he slowly retraced his steps, the Kid softly repeated the phrase. He'd learned many Lakota words from Buck. However, he'd yet to become proficient in speaking the language. If he didn't butcher the pronunciation too badly, Buck might be able to translate. It was important to him to know what Curly had said - though not as important as keeping the trust he had earned.

* * * *

Teaspoon nervously guided Frank Anderson down the street to the jail. Afraid to relinquish control for even the few minutes it would take him to mount his horse, Teaspoon had chosen to walk the two miles back to town. His gun never wavering from the broad back of his prisoner.

Though not as big as Red Tate, Anderson was more powerfully built. Muscles rippled, bulging at the seams of his almost skin-tight clothes. Teaspoon had little doubt the man could take him with one hand tied behind his back. It was surprising that Mrs. Anderson had escaped with only a bruise and a torn dress.

"Have a nice walk, Teaspoon?" Tompkins called, stopping his sweeping to watch the procession.

Softly cursing the store keeper for the minor distraction and the embarrassing display, Teaspoon returned his gaze to the broad back of his prisoner. Sweat rolled down the side of his face and beaded on his top lip. He could taste its salt. The hand holding his gun shook with fatigue. Though it was within sight, the jail seemed an impossibly long way away. Holding exhaustion at bay, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

When they finally reached the Marshal's office, Teaspoon threw the reins of his horse around a convenient hitching post and followed Anderson inside. Fear twisted his stomach as he found himself momentarily blinded in the shadowy light of the room. Certain Anderson would attempt to escape, he braced himself. When no attack came, he relaxed. It wasn't until his vision cleared, and Anderson was entering an empty cell that he eased his grip on his gun. Noticing Mrs. Anderson was occupying the adjoining cell, he demanded, "Barnett, why in blazes have you arrested Mrs. Anderson?"

"You'll see, Marshal," the deputy cryptically warned. "You'll see."

* * * *

The fire burned brightly - the only light in the moonless night. Isolated from his guards, Red morosely contemplated his options. They had diminished considerably with the appearance of the Sioux. The proximity of the savages made a daylight escape impossible. They would reach Fort Laramie late the next day. That meant tonight was his last chance to beat the hangman. Should he wait until most of them were asleep? Or, do it now and take a hostage?

His eyes rested on the Kid. The boy's self-righteous attitude grated on his nerves as much now as it had when they were growing up. Jed was the only reason he was still alive. Big brother had protected little brother with a ferocity that had disgusted and infuriated Red. Jed was dead now. There was no longer anyone to stand in his way.

He saw his chance when the Kid rose to pour himself another cup of coffee. Quickly emptying his own cup, Red held it up. "Could I have a refill, Kid?"

The Kid hesitated before nodding a reluctant consent and crossing to the prisoner.

With a movement that was barely perceptible, Red drew the cup closer to his body. His free hand dipped into his boot, scratching a non-existent itch. As the Kid bent to pour the coffee, Red pulled a knife from his boot with his right hand. With his left, he looped the loosened rope binding his wrists around the Kid's neck. Delighting in the feel of the soft flesh beneath his fingers, he pulled the rope tight. The convulsing body collapsed shielding him. To ensure his captor's compliance, he put the knife against the vulnerable throat.

The clatter of the coffee pot hitting the ground echoed into the night. Hickok was the first to react. Rising to his feet, he reached for his Colt.

"You complete that motion," Red warned, "and yer friend is dead." Blood glistened on the sharp blade. "I can cut his throat quicker 'n you can draw that there gun."

"Hold it, Jimmy," Sam cautioned, raising his own hands away from his sidearm. "Whaddya want, Tate?"

"Here I thought you was a smart man, Marshal."

"I'm smart enough to know if you kill that boy you won't live long enough to enjoy it."

Studying the faces of the other boys, Red angrily conceded, "Looks like we got what they call a impasse."

"Let the Kid go," Sam softly urged.

Red laughed. The horrible sound sent shivers up the backs of his listeners. "Do I look that stupid? I give the boy up, you'll shoot me or take me to Fort Laramie where I'll hang. Either way, I'm dead." Tightening the rope that circled the Kid's throat, he said, "If I'm gonna go, I might as well take this little pest with me."

"You let the Kid go, and I'll let you go," Sam promised.

The younger of the two deputies stepped forward, causing Tate to bury his knife deeper into the Kid's neck.

Sickened by the stream of blood flowing down the Kid's throat, Sam shouted, "Stay where you are, Ford."

"Ya can't let 'im go, Marshal," Ford protested. "Them redskins got the right name for 'im. He's a devil."

"I'll do what I gotta do ta keep that boy alive."

Tate bent his head and licked the blood flowing from beneath his knife. He enjoyed the Kid's shudder of revulsion almost as much as he savored the salty taste of the blood. "Saddle up two horses," he ordered, smacking his lips.

"No horses and no guns," Sam instantly rejected the demand. "That's the deal."

"I got no chance without a horse."

"You'll get a head start. We won't be able to follow you ‘til sunup."

"Odds still ain't in my favor."

"It's the only advantage you'll get," Sam unwaveringly replied. "Take it or leave it."

"Only a fool wouldn't take the only chance he's offered." His grip on the Kid didn't ease as Red rose to his feet. "My momma didn't raise no fool."

Though his eyes were focused on the Kid, Sam's words were for his captor, "Just remember, that boy's the only thing keepin' ya alive."

* * * *

Teaspoon stuck his head under his pillow hoping it would drown out the noise and give him a chance to get a few hours of sleep. The way station was too far from town to do his job, so he had elected to sleep in the small room at the back of the jail that Sam kept for emergencies. He was deeply regretting his decision.

Ever since he had turned the key in the cell occupied by Frank Anderson, the couple had been screaming at each other. Each placed the blame for their incarceration on the other. The dinner sent over by the hotel had elicited no peace. They had taken turns yelling and eating.

With the advent of evening, Teaspoon was certain there would be a respite in their hostilities. Though their voices had become hoarse, the arguing hadn't diminished. Teaspoon's hope that he would be able to get a couple hours of sleep disappeared with the first rays of the rising sun peaking though his window.

* * * *

Sam poured himself another cup of coffee and rubbed his tired eyes. He had spent the remainder of the long night fighting his conscience. Had he done the right thing letting Tate escape? Had he given the Kid a chance to live or condemned him to a slow, painful death? Sam's stomach churned at the memory of Tate's blood stained lips on the Kid's pale throat.

The soft glow of the early morning sun lit the gloomy camp. Crossing to where Ike was tightening the cinch on his horse, Sam kept his hands hidden as he signed a question he didn't want anyone else to overhear, "Ike, do you think you could find Curly's camp?"

"I already know where it is."

The young mute's hands moved so fast Sam could barely follow them. Relief making him tremble, Sam whispered, "I'm going to send my deputies on to Fort Laramie. I want you to tell Curly what happened. Seems ta me the only chance the Kid's got is if we join forces."

"Curly'll see the sense in that," Ike agreed, lifting the stirrup off the saddle horn where he'd placed it to make it easier to tighten the cinch.

"The rest of us'll wait here for ya."

Ike nodded his acknowledgment before pulling himself onto his mount. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

The sound of the horse cantering off drew the rest of the camp's attention.

"Where the hell's he goin'?" Ford demanded, throwing the contents of his coffee cup on the fire and rising to his feet.

"He's gonna scout the area," Sam soothed. "He'll be right back."

Cody emptied the coffee pot over the remaining embers of the fire. "We're almost ready to go Sam."

"That's fine, Cody." Turning to the older more experienced of the two deputies, Sam said, "Keene, I want you and Ford to go on to Fort Laramie and tell 'em what's happened."

"What the hell good is that gonna do?" Ford angrily protested. "You need us here."

Ignoring the tirade, Sam explained, "It's my guess Tate will head northeast into the mountains. I want you to see if the commanding officer will give ya some men. If you come in from the other side, we may be able to catch the son-of-a-bitch between us."

"It's a long shot, Marshal," Keene calmly pointed out. "We got a better chance of followin' his tracks from here."

"Without Buck, we could easily lose the trail."

Keene rubbed his bearded jaw, "I didn't think of that."

"That's why Sam's a marshal and yer a deputy," said Cody.

Noticing the dust cloud indicating approaching horses, Sam pressed, "Ya better git goin'." As soon as the two men were mounted, he slapped their horses on the rump sending them on their way.

"Why'd ya get rid of 'em, Sam?" Jimmy asked, the strain of the long night visible on his face.

"Without Buck, we're gonna need Curly's help to track Tate on this hard ground," Sam revealed. "I knew Ford wouldn't approve of what I'm gonna do."

"What're ya gonna do?"

"Exchange Tate for the Kid."

* * * *

A sharp stone stabbed the bottom of the Kid's foot making him trip and fall. The noose around his neck tightened cutting off his air. Stars danced in front of his eyes. He felt lightheaded. Wishing he could surrender to the darkness waiting on the fringe of his consciousness, he awkwardly climbed to his feet. A tug on the rope almost sent him crashing back to the ground. Fighting for balance, he stumbled forward, blindly following his tormentor.

To lessen the Kid's chances of escape, Tate had made him remove his boots and hat. His shirt had been pulled down to where the narrow opening was trapping his arms behind his back. The unyielding buckskin pressed into his flesh, almost cutting off the circulation. The sun beat down on his exposed head and shoulders making them burn. One end of the rope that had once bound Tate's wrists was now tied around his neck. The other end was held tightly in his captor's strong hand. It wasn't the only bond tying them together. The Kid was dizzy and nauseous, but he wouldn't allow Tate to see his distress. He wouldn't give the man the satisfaction - or the pleasure.

In front of them stretched the Laramie Mountains. The Kid inperceptively slowed his pace. While the forested slopes offered a cooling relief from the harsh sun, they also increased Tate's chances of escape. Despite his suffering, the Kid was grateful to Sam for giving him a chance to survive. Yet, he was also angry. His life wasn't worth the prospect of a free Tate. If the Devil made good his escape, how many innocent lives would pay the price?

"Faster, Kid," Tate ordered, tugging on the rope.

Sweat trickled into the cuts along the base of the Kid's throat. The salt made them burn. "Has it ever occurred to you it would've been smarter to let me keep my boots?"

"It wouldn't have been as much fun though."

"What's fun about watching a living creature suffer?"

"Why don't you ask yer Indian friend?"

"Indians don't kill for enjoyment," defended the Kid. "They kill to survive."

Red snorted, "Tell that to the settlers they've butchered."

"When a white man eats a white man's food without permission or steals a white man's land, it's a crime. When he does it to an Indian, it's progress."

"Ya always were one ta stand up for the helpless, Kid," Red sneered, increasing his speed. "It made me sick."

Forced to pick up his pace or choke, the Kid shut out his pain. Sharp stones weren't cutting his feet to ribbons. The hot sand wasn't burning the tender soles. His aching head didn't feel like it was being crushed.

"Ya wanna hear somethin' funny, Kid?" Red continued without waiting for an answer to his question. "Jed's the only reason you're still alive and he's dead because of you. He shoulda let me have my fun with ya."

His heart aching, the Kid whispered agreement, "Maybe he shoulda."

* * * *

Teaspoon closed the door behind him, grateful to escape the bickering couple locked in his cells. When he had served their breakfasts, he'd tried to reason with them. They had ignored him.

After making sure they had enough water to combat the sweltering heat, he decided to take a walk around the town. As hot and tired as he was, the exertion was preferable to his unwanted role as peacemaker.

A wagon rolled down the street flanked by two riders. It pulled to a stop outside Tompkins General Store. Shading his eyes, Teaspoon was happy to see it was Emma, Lou and Buck. He crossed the street, eager for a friendly voice.

"Mornin' Mr. Spoon," Emma said, climbing down from the wagon. "Marshalin' looks to be hard work. You get any sleep last night?"

"Nothin' to speak of," Teaspoon sheepishly admitted, bowing his head and rubbing the back of his neck.

Buck tied his horse. "I never woulda guessed Sweetwater was such a swingin' town."

Remembering with disappointment how the town had seemed to close up just after sundown, Teaspoon shook his head, "It weren't the saloons," he said. "My prisoners kept me awake."

"Who ya got locked up?" Lou asked, trying to brush some of the dust from her clothes.

"A couple by the name of Anderson."

A surprised Emma gasped, "Frank and Essie?"

"That's them" Teaspoon acknowledged.

"Whatever could they've done to be arrested?"

"Essie says her husband tried to kill her."

"Frank would no do such thing," Emma indignantly replied. "He don't look it, but he's the gentlest man I've ever known."

"Not according to Essie," Teaspoon said.

"Is Frank gonna be tried for attempted murder?"

"Not if I can git 'em to stop yellin' at each other and talk about their problem."

"I wonder what set 'em at each other's throats?" Emma mused, lifting an empty basket from the back of the wagon.

"Near as I can figure," Teaspoon said, rubbing his chin, "it's got somethin' ta do with flowers."

"Flowers?"

"It only goes ta show, ya can't hitch a horse with a coyote."

* * * *

Red glanced nervously behind him. His mouth was unbearably dry. He could kick himself for not demanding a canteen. Though he was suffering, he'd found an advantage in the arid conditions. A cloud of dust pinpointed his pursuers' position. He smirked when the cloud moved southeast of their location. He wondered how long it would take the Marshal to realize they were following a false trail.

"Getting nervous, Red?" The Kid's question was barely audible. The lack of water and the rope around his neck were taking their toll.

Slowing, Tate shook his head, "Why should I be nervous? I'm not the one with friends stupid enough to follow a false trail."

"You'll be sorry if you underestimate them."

"The only thing I'm sorry for is not killin' you when we were kids."

"What did I ever do to make you hate me?"

Red's harsh laugh sounded even more grotesque coming from a dry throat. "You told Mr. Harper what I done to his foal."

"I never did," the Kid denied.

"No one else saw me do it. Who else could've told?"

Kid's voice was hesitant as he whispered, "Jed saw you."

"Jed was my friend." Red angrily jerked on the rope pulling the Kid to his knees. "He never would've tattled on me."

"Well it wasn't me."

"You've got quite a nerve blamin' someone who can't defend himself."

"I wanted to tell," the Kid said, "but I never had the courage."

A fist slammed into the Kid's jaw toppling him to the ground. "Courage!" Red screamed. "You don't know what the word means. Do you know what they did to me?" Red pulled on the rope forcing the Kid to lift his head or choke. "They put me in an insane asylum. They said there was somethin' wrong with me. It took me two years to escape. I spent the years since lookin' for you."

When there was no reaction to his revelation, Red shook the body under his hands in frustration. It was beyond hearing him or feeling any discomfort. Red giggled as he considered how he would make the condition permanent. First, he would carve his initials in the smooth hairless chest. Then, if he had time, he would cut off an ear to keep as a memento of this glorious occasion.

* * * *

Sam carefully followed Curly through the sand and sagebrush, frustration and worry gnawed at him. How much ground could they cover on foot? Had he been wrong to ask Curly for help? Was the Kid just another white man to the Indian? Sam couldn't see any sign indicating Tate had passed this way. Were Curly's braves following the false trail or were they? The answer could cost the Kid his life.

A brown finger pointed to a spot on the ground. Bright red blood stood out against the sandy landscape confirming Curly's theory. Miles back, they had discovered the Kid's boots and hat. The sight had filled Sam with a rage he'd barely been able to control. Hickok didn't have his constraint. They'd had to drag him from his horse to prevent him from heedlessly pursuing their former prisoner, and possibly getting the Kid killed. Sam winced. The Kid might well be dead already.

Curly touched the blood with the tip of his fingers. "It is fresh," he whispered. "They are close."

His heart beating so fast he was sure it was revealing their position, Sam crouched. Envying the Indian's agility, he carefully advanced. The shuffle of a foot or a kicked stone could reveal their presence. The mountains loomed ahead their dense forests offered the fugitive the protection he sought. Sam knew they'd have to intercept Tate before he reached them. It was one reason why he'd been so willing to seek Curly's assistance.

The harsh sound of breathing registered only moments before a hand on his chest halted his movement. At first, Sam was afraid he was responsible for the noise. Curly put his finger to his lips, requesting silence from his companions. When the Indian pulled a large knife from the sheath at his waist, Sam started to protest. It died with the horrifying memory of bloody lips on a pale throat.

Afraid to move and reveal their presence, Sam stayed as still as he could and watched Curly creep forward. At the crest of a small knoll, the warrior's right arm cocked. Sam heard the swoosh of the knife as it flew through the air. The resonance of its impact with human flesh seemed unusually loud in the late afternoon air.

When Curly rose and rushed forward, Sam, Ike, Hickok and Cody quickly followed. No longer concerned with secrecy, Sam didn't admonish the boys for the noise they were making as they passed him going up the hill. At the top, he paused to catch his breath. Before him lay two bodies. It was impossible to tell if either of the men were still alive. The blade of Curly's knife was buried to the hilt in Red Tate's shoulder.

Hickok knelt beside his friend. "The Kid's in pretty bad shape, but he's breathin'."

"So is Tate," Cody reported, fearfully backing away when a bloody hand reached for him. "Your aim was a little off, Curly."

"I hit what I was aiming at." Curly's eyes sadly rested on the only white man he called brother. "I would not let _Wakansica_ die so easily." Yipping loudly, Curly signaled his braves.

As the cloud of dust drew nearer, Sam said, "We made a deal. Tate's yours, Curly."

"Cain," Tate screamed in protest, "you can't do that. You can't let them take me. They're inhuman."

Deaf to the other man's insult, Curly asked, "Will this not put you in disfavor with your people?"

"Probably, but you saved the Kid's life. It's a fair exchange."

"We will see to it that the Devil never walks this earth again."

"I wish you luck, but I'm afraid the Devil has many brothers."

* * * *

The moon lit his path as Teaspoon walked down the deserted street. The hotel restaurant's dinner wasn't as good as Emma usually served, but it had been satisfying. Mostly though, it had been an excuse to leave the jail and its bickering prisoners. His ears ached after so many hours of listening to the Anderson's accusations. The only information he'd gleaned from his hours of attendance was the cause of the couple's original disagreement. Like many of the local ranchers, Anderson had started to conserve water. Mrs. Anderson's flower garden had been placed in the non-essential category. This obviously hadn't set well with the woman. Personally, Teaspoon agreed with her husband's decision. Without stock or a crop, he could lose his land.

Teaspoon's steps slowed as he neared the Marshal's office. Just outside, he stopped. Laying a hand on the door knob, he glanced up and down the street hoping to find an excuse to delay his entrance. Much to his dismay everything was peaceful, almost unusually so. Disappointed, he reluctantly opened the door.

The first thing he noticed was the silence. His initial pleasure turned to panic, Had the couple, despite his precautions, managed to kill each other? Teaspoon quickly lit a lamp. Smiling faces greeted his questing gaze. Resting a hand on the butt of his gun, he suspiciously demanded, "What's goin' on?"

"We made our peace, Marshal," Frank Anderson said. "Ya kin let us go now."

Teaspoon's initial impulse was to rush over to the keys and unlock the cells. His sense of duty as temporary marshal prevented him from doing so. "Mrs. Anderson, you claim yer husband tried to kill you. He has to be tried for his crime. It's up to a judge to release him, not me."

Ducking her head, Essie coyly confessed, "Frank ain't the one who hurt me. I fell tryin' to hit 'im with the shovel. I hurt myself."

"That's not a crime," Teaspoon decided, rushing to the desk to retrieve the keys. His hands shook as he unlocked one cell then the other. "Yer free ta go."

Hand in hand, the young couple strolled out of the office. The bliss on their faces was a sharp contrast to the anger that had been prevalent for so long. To prevent their return, Teaspoon was tempted to bolt the door. As he contemplated his options, it flew open. Backing up in fear, he stopped when he saw that the new arrival was his deputy. Burying his embarrassment in anger, Teaspoon demanded, "Where ya been, Barnett?"

"Waitin' fer ya ta release the Andersons," the Deputy said. Crossing to where he'd left his broom, he started sweeping the office. "Me an' the Marshal've learned ta run the other way when we see an Anderson in town."

"Ya mean this has happened before?"

"'Bout once a month."

"Ya coulda warned me."

"I tried."

Rubbing tired eyes, Teaspoon collapsed in his chair. "Not hard enough."

* * * *

Sam stood ramrod straight, his eyes focused on a picture hanging on the wall behind Colonel Lawson. It was a pastoral painting. The peaceful scene soothed his tattered soul. For the last half-hour, he had stood here in front of the Fort Laramie commanding officer relaying his story. All he wanted to do now was relax. He fought the temptation. He had one last duty - to protect Curly and his people.

Referring to some notes his aide had taken, Lawson leaned back in his chair, "You stated that you stabbed Tate to death."

"That's right." To be safe, Sam had stayed as close to the truth as possible. He would've like to have given Curly credit for the kill, but he couldn't take the chance. Curly's actions against Tate, a white man, might be considered a crime. It didn't matter that the white man in question would've been hung anyway.

"Why didn't you return with the body?" the Colonel asked, continuing his investigation.

"I was more concerned with the boy. He needed a doctor."

"There were four of you. No one had the time to throw Tate's body across a saddle?"

"Have you ever seen Red Tate, Colonel? It would've taken all of us and maybe a few others to lift him that high. Considerin' what he'd done leavin' him for the buzzards seemed appropriate."

Lawson's hand slammed down on his desk. "That wasn't your decision to make, Marshal."

"In my judgment it wasn't worth riskin' the life of that boy for a dead man."

"Your judgment seems to be flawed."

Controlling his temper with difficulty, Sam spoke through clenched teeth, "As I was appointed by the Governor of the territory, that's somethin' I suggest you take up with him."

A twitch appeared at the corner of Lawson's left eye. "Your deputies seem to think Indians might have been involved."

"The Indians had nothin' to do with Tate." Sam bit his tongue. Lying didn't come easy to him.

"That's not what Keene and Ford think."

"Who was there, them or me?"

Rising to his feet, Lawson came around his desk to stand beside the Sweetwater marshal, "I'm not happy with your report, Cain."

"Would you like me to lie?"

"I think you already are, but I can't prove it. I'm sure you got those boys trained to say whatever you want. If I ever find out the truth," Lawson threatened, sticking a finger in the taller man's chest, "I'll have you up on charges so fast, it'll make your head swim."

Steely eyes focused on the flabby finger, Sam growled, "If that's all, Colonel, I'd like to see how the Kid's doin'."

Without waiting for an acknowledgment to his request, Sam walked out of the office. He was careful to keep his steps slow and even. He didn't want to give the impression he was trying to escape. It could be construed as a sign of guilt.

Once outside, he picked up his pace, eager to find out how badly the Kid was hurt. While he felt no guilt over lying on his report to the Colonel, he did feel responsible for what happened to the Kid. As soon as he found out about the boy's relationship with Tate, he should've sent him back to the ranch.

The smell of ether assaulted his nostrils, telling him he was close to the hospital. He prayed that the doctor was competent. His experience with other military physicians didn't fill him with confidence. One had been drunk so often, he'd spent more time in his infirmary than his troupers. Most of the others had simply been incompetent. It seemed as though the Army only recruited men who graduated at the bottom of their class.

Entering the hospital, Sam found it remarkably clean. Though flies swarmed outside the building, there wasn't one inside. Encouraged, he looked around, hoping to see one of the boys. His search ended when his eyes rested on the small group surrounding one of the beds at the end of a long row. Walking softly in the quiet room, he crossed to their side. Though tired, they looked happy. Realizing they wouldn't be smiling if the Kid was still in danger, Sam's step became lighter. Drawing closer, he saw the Kid was awake. Keeping his voice low, he asked, "How ya doin', Kid?"

"I'm fine, Sam." The Kid's reply was barely audible. The cuts and bruises circling his throat were the obvious cause.

"That's not exactly true, Marshal." A man in a white coat approached, "My patient needs rest. I want you all out of here, now."

His right hand crossing to the pistol on his left hip, Hickok demanded, "Who's gonna make us?"

"Our concern for the Kid," Sam snapped, putting his hand on Jimmy's. Turning his attention back to the Kid, he added, "Take it easy, Kid. Do what the doctor says."

"I don't have much choice." A rueful smile curved the dry cracked lips.

Sam patted the Kid's arm before following the doctor from the ward. Though he didn't look much older than the boy he was treating, the physician's action demonstrated his competence. As they stepped onto the porch Sam glanced down the hill toward the parade ground. His stomach muscles tightened with a combination of fear and anger. Lawson stood outside his office watching him. Despite his concern for the Kid, Sam realized it was imperative that they leave as soon as possible. All it would take was one slip to condemn Curly and his people. "How long before the Kid can travel, Doc?"

"He's a pretty sick boy. It'll be at least a week before he can handle the rigors of the road. Even then he'll have to ride in a wagon. His feet are in bad shape. He won't be walking by then, much less riding."

"You said he was gonna be all right," Hickok belligerently accused.

"He will be," the doctor calmly soothed. "It'll take time for the physical injuries to heal. I can sew and bandage the cuts and put salve on the burns and bruises, but there's no treatment for the mental torment he was subjected to. What was done to that boy was inhuman. He has to come to terms in his own way and time."

Though he wasn't sure if he could keep to his story for another week, Sam knew they would have to stay. It was the least they could do for the Kid. "One of you boys better head back to Sweetwater and let them know what's happened. The rest of us'll stay here with the Kid."

"Who goes?" Cody asked.

"Actually," the doctor interposed, running a hand through thick brown hair. "My vote would be for all of you to go. My patient needs rest, not visitors."

Though he desperately wanted to grasp at the excuse, Sam's first consideration was still for the Kid. "Shouldn't one of us stay?"

"He won't sleep if he feels he has to entertain a guest. It could slow the healing process."

"Won't he feel abandoned?"

"Not if there's someone here to take him home when he's well enough to leave."

"Right," Sam decided, his gaze resting on the dim figure of Colonel Lawson. "We'll be on our way."

"Sam . . ." Hickok started to protest.

"We're gonna do what's best for the Kid," Sam interrupted, the tone of his voice making it obvious he wouldn't tolerate an argument. "Go get the horses ready. I'll find Keene and Ford. We'll meet you at the stable."

As the boys reluctantly obeyed, Sam turned to the doctor, "Tell the Kid someone'll be here to take 'im home at the end of the week."

"I'll tell him," the doctor assured the Marshal.

Though he knew they were doing what was best for the Kid, Sam couldn't help but feel they were deserting him - again. This time it was for his own good and Curly's. Sam could only hope the Kid would understand that. Someday.

* * * *

Teaspoon leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. Closing his eyes, he fanned himself with a wanted poster. The slight breeze cooled his face and kept the flies away. Things had been peaceful in the days since the Andersons release. The whole town seemed to be breathing easier.

"Marshall Hunter!"

The familiar voice filled Teaspoon with a dread he had never felt before. Not even when he'd watched Santa Ana's troops building up outside the Alamo. His feet hit the floor with a thud. As he rose, he knocked over his chair. Rushing to the window, he saw Mrs. Anderson marching down the street toward the jail. Afraid to take the time to put his chair right, he grabbed his hat and hurried to the back door. "Barnett, I'm goin' out to the station," he informed his deputy. "I'll be back shortly."

"Whaddya want me ta do 'bout Mrs. Anderson?"

"What do ya usually do?"

"Hide?"

"Then I suggest you do it."

Teaspoon didn't wait to see what action Barnett chose to take. In a situation like this, it was every man for himself. Sticking to alleys and side streets, he cautiously made his way to the stable where he saddled his horse in record time. He didn't look back as he cantered out of town.

As soon as he felt safe, he eased his sweating horse down to a walk. He patted the mare on the neck to show his gratitude. Despite his nagging concern regarding the Anderson's, he was happy. There was nothing like a fast run on a good horse to raise one's spirits. It wasn't difficult to understand why the boys loved their job. His contentment disappeared when he saw Keene and Ford riding toward him. He knew Cain's absence shouldn't worry him, but it did. "Where's Sam?"

"He went on to the station with your boys," Keene explained.

"At least what's left of 'em," Ford snickered, trotting past the temporary marshal.

Teaspoon had never like Ford. Now he knew why. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You'll find out."

Against his better judgment, Teaspoon urged the mare into a trot. Was Ford just spouting off or had one of the boys been hurt - or killed? The uncertainty of what he would find when he reached Emma's tied his stomach in knots making him feel ill. Even while his imagination filled him with fear, he swore that Ford's days as a deputy in Sweetwater were numbered. If Sam didn't fire the man, he would take care of him in his own way.

Pushing his horse to a canter, he finally reached the station. The first person he saw was Ike. The boy looked unharmed as he fed Samson an ear of corn. Dismounting, Teaspoon asked, "Is everyone all right, Ike?"

The mute sadly shook his head and signed, "You better talk to Sam." Taking the mare's reins, he pointed to the bunkhouse.

"Thanks, son," Teaspoon said, hesitating before heading across to the bunkhouse. Who was hurt - and how bad? He refused to believe any of his boys could be dead.

As soon as he entered the bunkhouse, he started counting heads. Even before he finished, he knew who would be missing. If he'd been honest with himself, he'd known it days ago, before the posse even left Sweetwater. "Where's the Kid?" he breathlessly demanded.

"In the Fort Laramie hospital," Hickok revealed, crossing to stand next to the older man.

"Will he be all right?"

"Eventually."

"What happened?"

"Red Tate escaped and took 'im hostage."

Teaspoon stared at Sam Cain with a fire in his eyes that was almost bright enough to light the room. "I told ya ta take care of my boys."

"It wasn't Sam's fault," Cody quickly defended the Marshal.

"I wasn't talkin' ta you Cody," Teaspoon snapped, keeping his eyes focused on Cain. "How could a bound prisoner overpower a strong young boy?"

"He had a knife hidden in his boot," Sam simply stated.

"Who did such a lousy job of searching him?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm the Marshal, it was my responsibility."

"Who?" Teaspoon angrily repeated.

Silence filled the charged room until Cody finally blurted out, "I'll bet it was Ford."

Though Sam didn't say a word in acknowledgment, Teaspoon saw the truth in his eyes. "I'll kill the son-of-a-bitch!"

Putting a hand on a dust-covered arm, Emma logically demanded, "What good will that do?"

"It'll make me feel better."

"Less guilty you mean," Emma observed.

Shaking off the young woman's soothing hand, Teaspoon crossed to his customary seat at the table. Dropping heavily onto the wooden chair, he whispered, "As soon as I discovered their relationship, I shoulda stopped the Kid from going. Why didn't I?"

Blinking back tears she couldn't shed in present company, Lou pointed out, "The Kid's stubborn. You wouldn't have stopped 'im, 'less he wanted you too."

Teaspoon recognized the truth in the boy's words. Even as his own guilt eased, he saw color return to Sam's pale face. They felt equally responsible for what had happened. Placing the blame wouldn't change their feelings. Teaspoon discovered a long time ago that you have to learn from your mistakes, not mourn them. "When can the Kid come home?"

"As soon as we get a wagon to Fort Laramie," Hickok explained. "Doc says it'll be a few weeks 'fore he can sit a horse."

"Then a wagon'll leave in the mornin'."

"Who'll drive it?"

Teaspoon looked over the sea of hopeful faces. No matter who he chose the others would be angry and disappointed. He couldn't make everyone happy. Someone had to run the mail.

"If it's all the same ta you, Teaspoon," Sam said, sitting at the opposite end of the table, "I'd rather you didn't send Ike, Cody or Jimmy."

Speaking loud enough to be heard above the boys protests, Teaspoon asked, "Why not?"

"I'm afraid Lawson might try to get the truth out of 'em. The Colonel can't ever know Curly killed Tate."

"Curly killed Tate!" Teaspoon softly repeated.

"It's a long story."

Unbuckling his holster, Teaspoon laid it on the table. Leaning back in his chair, he suggested, "Take yer time. The only problem in town is with the Andersons. Yer deputies can handle it."

* * * *

Despite Buck and Lou's attempts to ease his passage, the Kid's whole body ached. A mattress and blankets partially cushioned him from the bumpy road, but nothing could protect him when a wheel dropped into a deep rut. He strangled a moan. He would be glad when they finally reached Sweetwater.

He sighed with relief when Buck decided it was time to set up camp. While the others built a fire, he stared up at the stars. Their beauty usually filled him with a sense of wonder and peace. They didn't tonight. Anymore than they had the night before or the night before that. He knew Buck and Lou were worried about him. He spoke only when spoken too and picked at the food placed in front of him. He'd offered the excuse that his throat was still sore. He could see on their faces that they hadn't been fooled. They would never understand the person he had become.

A cool breeze blew across the sweat beading on his brow. Tremors would rack his body at the sight of a knife or a tin cup. He was afraid to fall asleep. He knew he would only wake-up screaming. At least he had every night since his rescue. He didn't want Lou to see he had become a coward haunted by his own dreams. When he closed his eyes, all he saw was Red Tate carving his initials in Lou's soft flesh. Her sightless eyes staring into his, accusing him. Blaming him for what had been done to her. He would never rest as long as Red Tate lived.

The memory of his ordeal and its possible consequences had robbed him of his appetite. He reluctantly accepted the filled plate Lou handed him. As soon as she sat down to enjoy the meal they had prepared, the Kid pushed his plate away. The sight of the meat made him feel sick. Though his throat was dry, he ignored the cup of coffee. His hand shook so hard he knew he'd only spill it anyway.

Licking the last remnants of the rabbit Buck had killed off her fingers, Lou crossed to the wagon. The untouched plate brought a frown to her pretty face. "Ain't ya hungry, Kid?"

Knowing he couldn't look into the worried brown eyes and tell a lie, the Kid ducked his head. "No."

"Ya won't get well if ya don't start eatin'," Lou gently warned.

"Could ya get me the canteen?" the Kid asked, trying to ignore her concern.

"There's a cup of coffee right here," Lou said, reaching for the tin cup.

"No!" The Kid's hand lashed out knocking it to the ground. Visibly shaking, he cried, "I just want some water."

"I'll fill the cup. It'll be easier for you to drink from it than a heavy canteen."

"No!" Closing his eyes, the Kid took a deep breath to try to calm his screaming nerves. "Never mind. I don't want anything."

Silently, almost like a ghost, Buck crossed to Lou's side. "Someone's coming," he softly warned. Pulling his gun, he took shelter behind one of the wagon wheels, while Lou took cover behind a downed tree.

Feeling vulnerable in the open wagon, the Kid pulled the pillows out from behind his head and drew his gun.

"It is all right," Curly's familiar voice called. "It's me."

The hand holding the gun went limp. Eventually, the Kid's wildly beating heart slowed, making it possible for him to breath again. "Ya think ya could announce yerself a little sooner next time. I almost pissed in my pants."

"Sorry," Curly apologized, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't know you whites scared so easy."

Hiding his embarrassment in anger, the Kid demanded, "What are ya doin' here anyway?"

"I thought you might rest easier if you knew that _Wakansica_ was no more."

"Thank God."

"Your God or mine?" the warrior asked, echoing the question he'd presented at their first meeting.

The Kid smiled. It was his first since his ordeal. "Both."

"I think it took both to defeat this _Wakansica_."

"With a little help from their children."

"I must return to my people, _Wakan Tanka nici un_ ," Curly said, clasping the Kid's arm in friendship. "Next time, my brother, when _Wakansica_ calls to you, run the other way."

"I will," the Kid assured his friend.

This time when the Kid raised his eyes to the stars, he saw their beauty and felt comforted. Hoping this newly found peace would invade his dreams, he closed his eyes and thanked both Gods for his salvation. "Buck, what was the last thing Curly said?"

"He said, Good-bye and asked the Great Spirit to go with you and guide you."

Though the memory of his rescue was vague, the Kid knew who he owed his life too. Smiling, he whispered, "They already have."

* * * *

Sam breathed deeply enjoying the scent of the clean air. It had finally rained the night before, giving the land a much needed bath. Hopefully, it would also ease the tension between Frank and Essie Anderson. At least for a few weeks.

Lightly touching his heels to his horse's side, he sat back and enjoyed the ride. it was at times like this that he envied the boys who rode for the Pony Express.

Nearing the Shannon ranch, he eased his mount to a walk. When he saw Emma tending the garden behind her house, he pulled to a stop and dismounted. Looping the reins around the fence, he called, "Afternoon, Emma."

"Hello, Sam." Throwing away the weeds she'd pulled, Emma wiped her hands on her apron. "What brings you all the way out here?"

"I wanted to see how the Kid was feelin'."

"Why don't you go see fer yerself? He could still use a little more flesh on those bones and an uninterrupted night's sleep, but he's comin' around. Doc says he could be back in the saddle by the end of next week."

While Sam was relieved to hear the news, it didn't ease his conscience. "Guess I should go talk ta 'im."

"He'd appreciate the company," Emma agreed, waving her hand toward the bunkhouse. "He's pretty near read every book we got on the place. We can't neglect chores ta keep 'im company."

As he walked toward the building housing the riders, Sam studied the porch until he found a vague shape sitting in the shadows near the door. His steps faltered. What kind of reception would he receive? Did the Kid blame him for what had happened as much as he blamed himself? Squaring his shoulders, he prayed for the courage to go on. When he first tried to speak, no words came out. Clearing his throat, he squeaked, "How ya doin', Kid?"

"I'm bored," came the disgruntled reply.

Encouraged by the exchange, Sam stepped onto the porch. "Emma tells me it won't be too much longer 'fore yer back in the saddle."

"Almost two whole weeks yet," the Kid unhappily explained. "I'll die of boredom 'fore then. No saddle was ever as uncomfortable as this chair."

Taking a seat on the bench that ran the length of the building, Sam said, "I'm sorry, Kid."

"It wasn't yer fault," the Kid softly returned.

"But it was. I shoulda searched Tate myself. I shoulda sent you home when I found out about your relationship. None of this woulda happened it I'd done my job better."

"Curly believes that destiny shapes what happens to us," the Kid thoughtfully noted, absently scratching the healing skin on his shoulders. "We have no more control over it than we do the wind."

"Is that what you believe?"

"You couldn't change what was meant to happen, Sam. I'm just glad I'm alive, and Tate's dead."

"So am I," Sam heartily agreed.

"Now that we have that settled . . ." Reaching under his chair, the Kid pulled out a board and a small box. "Do you have enough guilt left," he innocently asked, "to stay and play a couple of games of checkers?"


End file.
